Drone Wars 1: Day of the Drone (16 page)

“Landlines are so passé these days, but you’re right. So do I. I need to let the network know I’m still alive, but I was so exhausted last night that I didn’t want to bother with it. I can go over to the Nash’s house next door and use their phone. They’re old and retired and home most of the time; however, next door around here is about a half mile hike up the mountain and through the forest.”

“No problem, I’ll come with you. A walk in the morning air will do me good.”

“I’ll get us a couple of jackets, I’m sure one of my dad’s will fit you.”

Chapter 13

Damien Winslow tried to hold the computer steady as the huge Chevy Suburban negotiated the narrow, two-lane mountain road. As an aid, he used his thumb and pointer finger to expand the picture so he could see it better.

It was a satellite image of a tiny log cabin nestled in the forest not too far from his present location. The three vehicle caravan had left for the address before the image was available, anticipating that this was where the target had fled. It was a risk, but calculated. Besides, the twenty thousand dollar bonus they’d been promised made it worth taking.

As it turned out, the satellite image confirmed that they’d made the right decision. The strange-looking helicopter was in plain sight, resting near the front of the small cabin. The image was only sixteen minutes old, and according to GPS, the team was six minutes from the destination. It would be an unfortunate stroke of bad luck for the helicopter to take off within that narrow timeframe, leaving them empty-handed. To narrow the chances of that happening, Jacques St. Claire, the driver, was pushing the huge SUV to its limits around the sharp curves, made even more treacherous by the recent snowfall and Caltrans’ failure to clear the roads by this early hour. The other two vehicles were falling behind, but they would soon catch up, as St. Claire made an abrupt turn to the right and onto a street called Pine Crest, within the small mountain town of Idyllwild.

Two minutes later, the caravan reached the steep dirt road that led to the cabin. The heavy lead SUV turned onto the mushy surface and immediately ran into trouble. Even though four-wheel drive was an option on this model, the L.A.-based owners of the vehicle had opted only for standard front-wheel drive. A quick radio check of the other two vehicles found that none of the others had four-wheel drive either.

Damien gnashed his teeth out of frustration. There was no other option. They parked the vehicles at the base of the road—looking conspicuous in the quiet rural town—and set out on foot for the half-mile hike up the steep, snow-covered slope.

Even though the vehicle caravan and his eight-man team stood out like neon signs, fortunately there were no buildings facing the sharp turn in the road where they parked, and soon the men were obscured by the tall pine and cedar trees. All his men were ex-military, well-trained, and armed with either Beretta ARX-160 assault rifles or the old standby Uzi submachine gun. They were each a prime specimen of male physical conditioning, and so even at an altitude of one mile, they scaled the slope with ease, if not with stealth. They were in two groups, trailing one after the other to either side of the snow-covered road, and even though they tried, it was impossible to cover their tracks in the snow and slush.

Damien had been provided with a brief file on each of the targets, so he wasn’t worried. The man was literally an armchair warrior—an expert at drone combat, rather than the real thing. The other was a plastic-looking Barbie doll he’d seen before on T.V. On paper, neither posed much of a threat, even though taking out the woman would be shame—not because Damien had any qualms about killing a woman, but because she was so hot.

It wasn’t long before they crested the slope and came upon the rustic cabin with the futuristic hovercopter sitting out front. It was nearing seven a.m. and the late-rising sun of mid-December was just beginning to peek over the mountaintop to the east and touch the tallest of the pines. There was a light on inside the cabin, and as the team approached and flanked the front entrance, Damien spotted tracks in the virgin snow, indicating that someone had already been outside this morning. That’s when he noticed the orange extension cord running from the aircraft and into the cabin, with the front door slightly ajar to allow for the cable’s entry.

The only reason he didn’t order a full-on frontal assault of the cabin was the fact that its occupants knew they were targets and might be prepared for more attempts on their lives. In addition, most rural cabins like this one had a weapon of some sort lying around, and Damien wasn’t about to get one of his men killed simply because he was impatient.

Damien Winslow produced his own miniature drone. It was a tiny, six-inch-diameter spy drone running on four, almost-silent rotors, and linked to the small screen of his cellphone. He handed the drone to his second-in-command, Jacques St. Claire, and then activated the small controller.

The tiny, bird-like device spun off toward the cabin, coming in low under the solitary front window before slowly rising to look inside. St. Claire and Damien studied the tiny image on the phone. There were curtains on the window, yet a small gap allowed for a restricted view of the interior. When this proved to be inconclusive, the drone moved to the front door. One of Damien’s men crouched on the front porch and gently pushed the door open wide enough for the drone to enter. The device stayed low, using its wide angle lens to do a quick survey of the interior. No one could be seen, yet there was a doorway to the left. The drone moved in that direction, entering through the open doorway into what was the cabin’s solitary bedroom.

Unless the two targets were in the bathroom together, the cabin was empty. With hand signals, Damien sent his men inside. He followed a moment later.

There was hot water on the stove and the remaining coffee in the two cups on the table was still warm. Could they have seen them coming and dashed out the back? That was a possibility. There was a rear door, and the two sets of tracks leading from the cabin were clearly visible.

The forest was still in the shadow of the mountain; even so, there were no dwellings to be seen through the trees in the direction of the tracks. The length of the steps left in the snow were narrow, indicating people walking, not running, so maybe his team was still undetected. Where were they going? Two people seeking refuge from killers seldom took leisurely morning strolls, especially in ankle-deep snow and sub-zero temperatures. There had to be a purpose for leaving the cabin.

He split his men into two groups once again, one on each side of the tracks, and they set off climbing higher up the slope. The snow was thicker here and crusty from the cold shadow of the mountain. All his men wore heavy combat boots, yet even then several slipped and fell during the climb. After several minutes, Damien began to detect the sweet smell of waffles or pancakes wafting in the still air. As they climbed higher, the smell grew stronger. A dog began to bark, with the cadenced sound echoing through the trees. There was a house up ahead, and they were getting close.

********

“A phone? Of course, sweetie,” Doris Nash chuckled. “But watch the minutes. We only have so many before I have to go all the way into Hemet to get a refill card.”

“Thank you so much. When I find my purse I’ll be sure to give you enough for a whole other card with three hundred minutes.” Tiffany introduced Xander to the old couple. Jack Nash sent him a wink when Tiffany wasn’t looking, an acknowledgement of Xander’s excellent taste in women.

The Nash home was much larger than Tiffany’s log cabin. It was on a separate road leading up the mountain from Idyllwild, with three bedrooms, two baths and a two-car garage. The couple had built it over thirty years before as a vacation home. Now in their early seventies, it was their permanent residence.

Jack Nash was seated before the T.V., and when Tiffany came near he quickly picked up the remote and switched the channel from CNN to
Fox and Friends
. The reporter chuckled. “That’s okay, Jack. At least now I know who their
one
viewer is.”

Embarrassed, the wiry, nearly-bald man rushed to change the subject. “Isn’t this something, I mean what happened in Las Vegas?” Xander came to stand next to the old man’s chair. The regular programming had been preempted for more conventional coverage of the attack. The on-screen talent was detailing how the strike had occurred, and how there had already been three attacks along the Eastern Seaboard that morning. The media was on a terrorist attack watch, just waiting for the next event to happen. A military expert was being interviewed, discussing the potential impact of the attacks and the secrets that had been posted to the Internet.

“I’m surprised you’re not in the middle of all this,” Jack said to Tiffany. She exchanged a quick glance with Xander before responding.

“Yeah, it is my kind of story. That’s why I need the phone. I lost mine and need to call the network.”

Doris handed her the cellphone.

“Xander needs to call his office, too, if that’s all right?”

“Just watch the minutes.”

Tiffany stepped outside on the front porch to make the call. Doris joined her briefly, as she yelled at her dog Ginger to stop barking. The old black lab obliged, making it easier for Tiffany to hear.

Xander stayed watching the news broadcast until Tiffany returned and handed him the phone. “They’re relieved, as would be expected. They’re sending a car up from Riverside to pick me up.”

Xander nodded. “Good. I’ll be right back.”

He stepped out the front door and into the subzero air outside. It was refreshing, and he sat in a padded chair that had been protected from the evening snowfall by the overhang above the porch. Ginger came up next to him, and after dialing the emergency response number for the RDC, he began to scratch the dog behind her ears.

The phone was answered immediately. “Code, please,” the mechanical voice asked.

“Six-Four-One-Nine-Red,” he answered.

Within seconds, a live person came on the line. “Xander Moore? Confirm secondary protocol.”

“Oscar, bravo … sunrise.”

“What’s your location?”

“I’m in Idyllwild, California. I’m secure at this time. I’m with a news reporter named Tiffany Collins, staying at her cabin. Can you fill me in? What was the damage?”

“Extensive to the facility, with over eight hundred dead. The facility has been reacquired; however all systems are down or have been compromised.”

“And the operators?”

There was a pause on the line before the speaker continued. “Nearly one-hundred percent. The assault drones probed throughout the facility for two hours, killing everyone they could find. Coordinated attacks on the homes of the pilots happened simultaneously with that on the facility. A few stragglers who were off the grid at the time survived and have been brought in. There was a report of a secondary assault to the east of the facility, believed to be aimed at you. Can you confirm?”

“I believe so. Look into the whereabouts of a former RDC pilot named Jonas Lemon. I believe he’s the one who compromised the Center, providing the information necessary for the terrorists to take us out. Any claim of credit yet?”

“There’ve been over a dozen who have, but nothing credible. The traffic on this one from the major players is really quiet, which is unusual for something this big.”

“I’m sorry, but could you repeat that,” Xander said. “There’s a dog here that just started barking.”

“I hear that. I said no one credible has claimed credit.” There was a delay on the line before the person on the other end spoke again. “Is the dog yours?”

“No, we’re at a neighbor’s house using their phone. We left ours at the Center.”

“Is the dog’s barking unusual?”

Xander felt the line of questioning was strange, until he answered the question. “I don’t know. She did bark when we came up to the house—”